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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29379978">a matter of expression</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anney/pseuds/Anney'>Anney</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Formula 1 RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sexual Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:54:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29379978</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anney/pseuds/Anney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ich liebe dich.</i>
</p><p>Charles smiles at the camera, dimples carved out on pink stained cheeks. The pronunciation is all wrong. Sebastian knows it’s well-meaning, sure. But that’s where all meaning ends.</p><p>Modern love—what a joke—heedlessly broadcast into the world as if its significance hangs on the click of a thumbs up icon.</p><p>The words feel like a slap in the face.</p><p>-</p><p>Four times Charles tells Sebastian that he loves him (one time that Sebastian believes him).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>150</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Winterbreak Writing Challenge (2020)</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a matter of expression</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For scarletred’s Winterbreak F1 Writing Challenge prompt: <i><b>And they were teammates! </b>What better moment to confess your feelings for your (former or current) teammate than Valentine’s day? How will it go? </i></p><p>Inspired by a Portuguese song (<b><a href="https://youtu.be/oBNhhzcaDKA"> Problema de Expressão </a></b> by <b>CLÃ</b>).</p><p>The first paragraph is a reference to this<a href="https://twitter.com/ScuderiaFerrari/status/1279008123597082624?s=20"> video</a> .</p><p>Everything is fictional.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>I.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Ich liebe dich.</em>
</p><p>The words feel like a slap in the face.</p><p>Charles smiles at the camera, dimples carved out on pink stained cheeks. The pronunciation is all wrong. Sebastian knows it’s well-meaning, sure. But that’s where all meaning ends.</p><p>Modern love—what a joke—heedlessly broadcast into the world as if its significance hangs on the click of a thumbs up icon.</p><p>He can forgive him, of course, because Charles doesn’t even speak German and foreign words never mean as much as your own. They lack the weight of a shared history.</p><p>He can forgive him because Charles could not have known. Charles never hid behind the living room door long past his bedtime, watching his parents slow dance to an imaginary tune, whispering those same three words with the intensity of a thousand suns. Charles never stammered them out with all the fervor of his adolescent heart, at that age when everything feels heightened and first loves are a matter of life and death. Charles hasn’t spent his whole life waiting to finally hear them said back to him with the same warmth and finality he witnessed in his parents’ embrace.</p><p>Sebastian watches the video again. And again. It feels like a slap in the face.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t care much for Charles, at first.</p><p>The boy is scrawny and hauntingly pale, smiling frightened in his white polo shirt. He looks like he might blow away in the first gust of wind.</p><p>He’s fast, of course, Sebastian knows that. Faster than anyone has any business being in a fucking Sauber.</p><p>Seb looks at him with the clinical gaze you use to size up the competition. He watches his race replays; guesses Charles’ every move with reassuring predictability.</p><p>Charles looks at him with something else entirely.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He wants to hate Charles when he realizes he had been horribly mistaken, the results sheet showcasing the severe underestimation on his part.</p><p>Charles won in Spa and he wins in Monza and Sebastian is furious. He can’t take his mind off Q3, off the stunt Charles pulled against team orders. A page ripped out of Seb’s own book. <em>How dare he?</em></p><p>He keeps replaying the unexpected flicker of insolence in Charles’ eyes when they crossed paths in the garage. Seb is fuming; Charles’ winning smile speaks louder than words. <em>You didn't see that coming, did you?</em></p><p>He wants to hate Charles, so bad. Mark had hated him for this sort of thing, but Seb had made it easy for him back then, being a little shit-stirrer at every possible time. Paying back in kind.</p><p>He pays Charles back in kind, too, in Singapore. And Charles’ angry radio tirade sounds like music to his ears. <em>At last,</em> <em>we show our true feelings</em>.</p><p>He wants to hate Charles, but the boy makes it damn well impossible, with his eyes full of admiration and his profuse apologies drenched in self-flagellation, wearing his heart on his sleeve.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He wants to drive Charles off the track, just like the prat did on the sweltering asphalt of Interlagos. He wants to grab him by both shoulders and shake all the brazenness and entitlement out of his lithe body. Let him be the one rattled, for once.</p><p>But by then Charles has learned how to seek absolution. He whispers platitudes against Seb’s lips, looks up at him with big doe eyes. Begs forgiveness, on his knees.</p><p>This little show of contrition should be doing nothing for him. But it does, because Seb is weak and Charles knows it. He exploits his weakness time and time again, swallowing his whole life and sucking out his soul until Seb is nothing but a panting shell of a man, consumed by thoughts of his teammate every hour of every day. And Charles. Charles grins triumphantly, the remnants of Seb’s come glistening in the corners of his lips.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He wants to hate himself, but he doesn’t.</p><p>He craves the adrenaline of the fight, the thrilling dopamine rush with every clash (of carbon fiber and tongues alike), the mellow wave of serotonin after release.</p><p>He’s an addict, but he can’t quite hate himself. Not yet. Not while he’s still on a high.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>II.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I love you.</em>
</p><p>The words fall on his bare skin, a whisper of breath just below his collarbone. Light and barely perceptible.</p><p>Charles is brave. Or maybe he’s just careless. Carefree.</p><p>He throws love around like he can’t possibly run out of it. As if it weren’t the most precious gift in the world, the very diamond of human feelings. Instead, he hands it out like cheap coal stones.</p><p>It doesn’t mean anything.</p><p>It’s easy to say ‘I love you’ like they’re in a cheesy Hollywood rom-com. When the words have been repeated so many times, they barely hold any substance at all.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Charles is the one who kisses him first.</p><p>He’s angry, so maybe it’s just a way to blow off some steam, and the weather in Russia is uncharacteristically warm for this time of year.</p><p>He kisses him like he’s picking up a fight.</p><p>“I gave you the slipstream,” Charles sinks his teeth on Seb’s lower lip, hard enough to leave a mark. Fingernails scratch the back of his neck, bordering on painful. It sets his whole body on fire. “What else did you want?”</p><p>“All you had to do was close the gap,” Sebastian counters, knowing exactly how infuriating he sounds. It fuels this new, unexpected want. He didn’t see that coming, either.</p><p>“Fuck you,” Charles shoves him. Not hard, but it catches Seb off balance, and his back hits the plywood wall. Charles crowds him at once. “How is this for closing the gap?”</p><p>He attacks his mouth again and Sebastian lets his defences drop for one weak, electrifying moment. He revels in the swift turn of events, the dizzying waltz of tongues and wandering hands.</p><p>He lets Charles exorcise his demons.</p><p>“Since you clearly get off on fucking me over, <em>Sebastian</em>.” (And the way he moans his name might be what ultimately seals his fate). “Perhaps that can be arranged.”</p><p>Sebastian adds some of his own.</p><p>“Cut the self-pity bullshit. In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t even finish the race.”</p><p>It’s not until the steam has cooled down enough that the only evidence left is the condensation droplets on the plexiglass window, and they’re busy fixing up their clothes and avoiding each other’s eyes, that Seb feels the first annoying twinge of tenderness.</p><p>“I don’t get off on fucking you over,” he says, and he means it too. For some reason, it matters to him that Charles knows that. “It’s just racing.”</p><p>Charles frowns at the soft tone, vaguely—<em>intentionally</em>—patronising. He looks like he might start complaining again, spewing nonsense about team orders like he wasn’t the one who started that particular fight. Sebastian doesn’t give him the chance.</p><p>“You’re a big boy, Charles. You don’t need me to hold your hand.”</p><p> </p><p>Charles seeks him out again, later, at the hotel. And this. This is premeditated. This is a risk. But Charles is brave.</p><p>“I’m sorry you didn’t finish the race today.”</p><p>Their noses touch under the glow of a nondescript sepia lamp, and Sebastian feels rooted to the floor, pinned down by the intensity of Charles’s eyes.</p><p>Charles kisses him slowly, deliberately. His tongue traces the marks he left on his lower lip earlier, runs precariously over the sharp blade of his teeth. He tastes like something that might give him a headache the next morning. Addictive. Sickly sweet.</p><p>“What are you looking for, Charles?” he asks wearily. The late hour demands honesty, and Seb is too tired to play games.</p><p>Charles pauses, ponders, searches for the right words. His eyes are soft around the edges, sincere and giving; a kaleidoscope of swirling colours, interchangeable and indistinguishable in the dim light.</p><p>“Anything,” is what he decides on, with the solemnity of surrender.</p><p>It’s probably the wrong answer. But Sebastian is weak.</p><p> </p><p>“We know you love each other,” Silvia says, blissfully oblivious of the way her words crash into the room like thunder. “So just tell people. You can occasionally kiss if you want.”</p><p>And the timing couldn’t be more awkward.</p><p>Sebastian wants to keep his face cool, but his eyes snap up too quickly, searching Charles, and the corners of his lips twitch behind the hand where he rests his chin in pure panic.</p><p>Charles turns pink, fidgeting nervously with his hands pinned under his thighs as if he has to physically restrain himself from giving anything away.</p><p>“I wouldn’t go that far.” Charles is a shitty liar.</p><p>Seb forces out a dry laugh that carries the undeniable edge of too much at stake. The news clipping on the table talks about Ferrari tensions in Russia. He can appreciate the irony.</p><p>He says the first thing that comes to mind. Deflection, in a humorous punch line.</p><p>“We’ll start by holding hands.”</p><p>Later, he looks at the footage with the clinical eye he uses to watch his race replays. He picks apart his performance, takes note of his mistakes.</p><p>He looks at Charles with something else entirely.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Charles is the one who storms into his bed like he belongs there. Like there has always been a Charles-shaped indentation on his spare pillow.</p><p>Not that Sebastian is innocent of their sins, not with how much he craves their late-night rendezvous, instigates them even. He seeks the illicit touches that make Charles squirm, occasionally a little too close to prying eyes.</p><p>It’s a dangerous game of hide-and-seek, their own version of foreplay. He steals chaste and unfulfilling kisses, teasing mercilessly until Charles storms into his room and falls into his bed. Where he belongs.</p><p>“I lied,” Charles says one night.</p><p>It’s honest hour in some remote part of the world. Hotel rooms all look the same with Charles sprawled on top of him, flushed and sated, shimmering with a thin sheen of sweat and the afterglow of his orgasm.</p><p>He places a palm over Seb’s heart.</p><p>“I want everything.”</p><p>A shiver runs down his spine, equal parts thrill and alarm. Seb doesn’t fool himself into thinking he could ever be everything, the way Charles deserves someone to be.</p><p>But they are weak, and so they both fool themselves into thinking that <em>something</em> is better than nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p><br/>
<br/>
Charles is the one who says ‘I love you’ first, but the words carry no weight, dropped unceremoniously on his collarbone, freezing cold against warm skin. It doesn’t mean a thing. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>III.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Ti amo.</em>
</p><p>It’s drenched in urgency, as much as the teeth scraping over his shoulder and the nails digging into his back, looking for purchase.</p><p>“<em>Ti amo</em>, Seb.” Pleasure rises as Charles rides him, a delicious and unstoppable wave much more pressing at the moment than the words that spill out of Charles’ parted lips. “Please, don’t go.”</p><p>And he wouldn’t if he had the choice, but that was taken from him without any semblance of courtesy. Perhaps it’s for the best. His time with Ferrari was always bound to end. And <em>this</em>. This has been going on for far too long; the lines of where Sebastian ends and Charles begins have become irrevocably blurred. It’s complicated. And Seb doesn’t like to do <em>complicated</em>.</p><p>Charles moans and writhes on top of him with heart-wrenching abandon; he meets Sebastian’s thrusts and pleads in bits of broken Italian—how fitting, for the final act.</p><p>His head hangs back in ecstasy, pale marble skin sublime under the ceiling lights, reminiscent of Renaissance statues of a pagan god. He comes with a graceless grunt, spilling white-hot strings all over Sebastian’s stomach.</p><p>The grand apotheosis.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Please, hurry,” Charles begs, the first time Sebastian finds him hard under his fireproofs. He briefly considers taking it slow, just to spite Charles, but the red heat surges through his veins, so he acquiesces.</p><p>It’s fast and messy and so deliciously wet as their cocks slide together trapped by the quick movements of his right hand. He holds onto Charles as he comes, hoping the thin plywood walls of his driver’s room are sturdy enough to contain the undignified sounds escaping his throat.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Please, just one minute more,” Charles begs as the alarm goes off at an ungodly hour, and it’s wonderfully warm in the bed where their sleeping bodies are entwined. He doesn’t want the warmth to go away either, but it has to, and the coldness that settles in the vacant space is a callous reminder that illicit highs can’t last forever.</p><p>It’s sobering hour in some remote part of the world. Dawns all look the same when remorse sets in.</p><p>It leaves a bitter taste in Seb’s mouth; a cold, Charles-shaped indentation on his spare pillow.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Please, forgive me,” Charles begs when he crashes into the rear of his Ferrari at the Styrian Grand Prix. And Seb is too tired for this, he doesn’t seek the thrill of a fight anymore, not when he can’t do any real fighting on the track.</p><p>The new car is undriveable. And Charles. Charles has oversteered his very heart.</p><p>“It was a childish move,” he says, curtly.</p><p>“I know. It was a mistake.” No petulant, false contrition. Charles sounds exhausted, too. “I really am sorry.”</p><p>Charles’ fingers seek his, angling his body to hide their joined hands from view. Seb lets the touch linger for a brief moment, before pulling back, resigned. The screens are still showing the race, and he wants to be alone. Sometimes, sorry isn’t enough.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Please, stay,” Charles begs, as if it makes any difference.</p><p>The collage of black and white pictures on his helmet is a nice touch, a collection of moments where their lives temporarily intertwined, anachronous and out of context. Little vignettes of a shared history that only they can understand.</p><p>It’s a nice touch, and a telling one at that. There’s no room for more pictures. It’s a finished story.</p><p>Charles signs his name on the shiny surface with a little flourish—the cursive ‘The End’ before the screen goes black.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p><em>Please, just one minute more</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>IV.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Je t’aime.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He loves Charles, but he doesn’t know it yet when he cradles his cheek in Bahrain, mistaking frustration for heartbreak. When he still thinks Charles is just another scrawny kid in need of comfort, and he doesn’t know yet that his heart doesn’t break so easily.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He loves Charles—but it’s a different kind of love—when he holds him in his arms for a long, long time after his first victory in Spa, and the silent tears soak the red fabric of Seb’s racing suit.</p><p>He loves him for his strength and fragility alike. And it is Sebastian’s heart that breaks for the boy in his arms, for he understands well the responsibility of carrying the memory of every man who lived and died for the love of fast cars.</p><p>And when others wonder, in moments like this, if what they do is even worth it, Sebastian knows—like Charles does—that it’s precisely <em>for them</em> that they have to do it. It is for <em>them</em> that they gamble with their own mortality inside a speeding car every other week; it is for <em>them</em> that they push and win and celebrate with fingers pointed at the sky, so that their lives will never be forgotten.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He loves Charles, but he refuses to entertain any notion of romantic love as they tear each other apart, strip down their souls to the very basics, and let them rebuild into something that grows in the early hours of the morning, with every atom in their bodies intertwined. Complicated. Irreversible.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He loves Charles, but he only comes to terms with it when there is a sea between them, and the dreary British weather drags him down into a pit of melancholic realization.</p><p>He wishes he hadn’t dismissed Charles’s love so easily. He wishes he had cherished all those confessions; that he had bothered to search in his beautiful, mystifying eyes. Perhaps he would have found some meaning there.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He loves Charles, and he misses him more than he thought was humanly possible and that’s why he calls him one evening, throwing all his cautious reasoning aside.</p><p>“Seb,” Charles greets him, with that French inflection that adds an extra ‘uh’ sound to the end of his name as if he wants to savour it on his tongue for a little bit longer. Sebastian lets out a relieved sigh. They talk for hours on end.</p><p>It feels familiar, how easily they lose themselves in conversation, and yet so new with no work distractions, guilty consciences or alarm clocks ready to go off.</p><p>He can hear the commotion in the background, the spray of running water and a series of clanking noises that sound suspiciously like someone just dropped a set of pans.</p><p>“Are you cooking?” asks Seb, somewhat incredulously.</p><p>He hears Charles chuckle on the other end of the line.</p><p>“I’m baking, actually,” he replies. “I’m trying to make banana bread.”</p><p>Seb wrinkles his nose at the chaotic potential of <em>Charles</em> in a kitchen.</p><p>“How’s it coming along?”</p><p>He can picture the scene with surprising clarity—Charles huffing over a bowl of batter, frowning at the recipe, biting his tongue in concentration. A smudge of flour on his cheek, kitchen utensils scattered all over the floor.</p><p>“Not very good,” Charles sighs. “Something is missing, but I can’t figure out what it is.”</p><p>“Did you remember the bananas?” Seb holds his breath, an amused smirk playing on his lips.</p><p>He can almost hear the eye roll over the phone.</p><p>“Yes, Sebastian. I did not forget to put bananas on the banana bread.”</p><p> </p><p>He calls again and again, every day on the clock, and each time his words float up into the atmosphere and travel through the electromagnetic spectrum to ping back to Earth. They find Charles waiting, a thousand miles away.</p><p>“I’ve tried the recipe you sent me,” Charles says.</p><p>“How did it go?” Seb can’t suppress the fondness in his smile.</p><p>“Burned the first batch. The second was okay.” Charles sighs audibly. “I wish you were here. I could use your help figuring it out.”</p><p> </p><p>Seb doesn’t call the next day.</p><p>He charters a jet and dashes across the atmosphere, falling back to Earth to ring at Charles’ doorbell.</p><p>“Seb-<em>uh</em>,” Charles’ eyes are wide in astonishment as he opens the door, bare feet scuffing the tiled floor. His hair is pushed back with a red bandana and he is wearing black-rimmed glasses that strangely suit his face. They clatter to the floor as Charles wraps his arms around his neck and doesn’t let go for a very long time.</p><p> </p><p>They have dinner together at a restaurant Charles picks, and it’s not until they are halfway through a fancy bottle of red wine and deep into conversation that Sebastian notices the couples at the tables around them. He notices the loved-up smiles, the heart-shaped candles, and the red roses in their little glass vases.</p><p>It’s Valentine’s Day. How cliché.</p><p>He laughs at the utter absurdity of it all. How has it come to this, how has his life suddenly turned into the cheesy Hollywood rom-com he always tried to escape?</p><p>“What?” Charles huffs at his outburst with a startled half-grin, like he can’t decide if the joke is at his expense. “What is it?”</p><p>Sebastian sighs, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.</p><p>“Is this weird?” he asks.</p><p>Charles looks puzzled as Seb points hopelessly at the table between them.</p><p>“What, dinner?”</p><p>“Yes, dinner. In Monaco. With all the—” He makes a vague gesture, trying to pinpoint the ultimate source of the absurdity of the scene. “—roses. Is it weird?”</p><p>“Yeah, a little,” Charles admits, with a chuckle, and his eyes crinkle into a smile. “It’s your fault, really,” he accuses. “If you’d told me you were coming, I could have prepared something for us.”</p><p>He inwardly curses his rash decisions; smiles in awe at how accepting Charles has been of them.   </p><p>“Ah, the elusive banana bread, perhaps?”</p><p>Charles grins.</p><p>“Yes. I could make it tomorrow, so you can see the issue for yourself. Or...” he pauses, caution catching up with the conversation. “How long are you staying?”</p><p>It’s the turning point.</p><p>For a moment Seb feels suspended in time, hanging precariously in neutral balance. His stomach lurches with the dazzling speed as they reach the proverbial apex.</p><p>He didn’t plan ahead; he doesn’t know what to say. He knows what he wants but isn’t sure what’s left for him. Anything. Everything. Forever.</p><p>“Seb?” Charles frowns. He has been silent for too long, and God knows what sort of embarrassing lovesick faces he is pulling.</p><p>“I need to tell you something,” he says, his heartbeat hammering in his eardrums. He takes a deep breath.</p><p>“<em>Non</em>,” Charles interrupts him with gentle determination. There is something about the soft edges of his eyes that is so kind and compassionate. Understanding. “Before you say anything, there’s something I need to—”</p><p>The tealight candle flickers with the intensity of his exhale. </p><p>“<em>Je t’aime</em>,” Charles says, green eyes locked in blue ones over half-eaten tiramisu. “<em>Je sais que ce n'est pas juste des mots, je m'en rends compte. Mais je veux que tu saches que je pense tout le temps à toi. Et peut-être que tu ne me croira pas, et peut-être que tu ne ressens pas la même chose, mais ça ira. Parce que ça ne change pas le fait que je n'ai jamais arrêté de t'aimer. Je t’aimerai toujours</em>.”</p><p>And Seb’s high-school grade French is nowhere near good enough to catch all that, but it doesn’t matter. It isn’t about the words at all.</p><p>It’s about the way Charles’ hand trembles slightly, searching for his across the table. It’s about the way his voice catches in his throat, filled with emotion the way words alone cannot. It’s about the sincerity in his eyes that sets Seb’s heart ablaze. It’s love. It’s everything.</p><p>He looks at the couples around them and their doting smiles look dull in comparison. Seb doesn’t feel like a cliché anymore. There is nothing commonplace about the two of them.</p><p>He loves Charles. He might let himself have this. <em>Everything</em> might just be enough.</p><p>In the end, there are no words needed. They never were.</p><p>“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”</p><p>They start by holding hands.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>* <i>French translation: “I love you. I know it’s not about the words, I realize that now. But I want you to know that I think about you all the time. And maybe you don’t believe me, and maybe you don’ feel the same and that's okay. Because it doesn’t change the fact that I have never stopped loving you. And I never will.” </i></p><p> </p><p>Ugh I was feeling cheesy, okay?</p><p>A huge thanks to K. for helping me with the French bits, I couldn’t have done it without you. The mistakes are all mine &lt;3. English is also not my first language (the irony!, I know) so feel free to point out where it went terribly wrong, feedback is very much appreciated.</p><p>Kudos and comments are better than banana bread :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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